


Angels in the Architecture

by ShinySherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: :), Alternate Universe, Angels, Angst, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Eventual Johnlock, Guardian Angels, Pre-Slash, fairly canon compliant throughout ASIP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 11:12:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6801409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinySherlock/pseuds/ShinySherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a guardian angel assigned to him after he comes back from the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Started this one ages ago. Tinkering with it for ["Self Insert Week 2016"](http://shinysherlock.tumblr.com/post/144044462295/self-insert-week-2016), so yes, Gwen is sort of me. Or, rather, the me I'd want to be in this fic? Because I would very much like to watch over John Watson and keep him safe. I've also wanted to work on original characters and world building, and hey, this fic is also a really good excuse for me to rewatch s1 and s2. :) Thank yous to somebodyswatson and ishipanarmada for looking over early drafts of this thing!

Gwen settles in the tree above the park bench, and is currently invisible to humans. She has chosen her favorite incarnation: her human form, but with her angel's wings of sapphire blue feathers at rest behind her.

"Good afternoon, Gwen," a voice greets her, its owner appearing without warning in the branch to her right. Gwen thinks someone has been spending a lot of time with a Brontë-era governess; her companion's long, grey, silk dress covers all but her chestnut brown hands and face, and her greying hair and silvery wings are impeccably groomed.

"Oh, lovely gown," adds the elderly archangel.

Gwen's dress is a flowing, cottony thing that suddenly feels like it shows entirely too much of her tawny skin.

"Thanks." She scans her new boss. "Nice . . . brooch."

"Oh, yes, thank you." She touches elegant fingers to the pin, sliding almost with reverence over the opal at the center of the silver filigree. "It was given me by my very last ward."

Well, that's worthy of an eyebrow raise. "You _revealed_?"

Grace nods, pursing her lips. "Yes. She was very special. Very special indeed."

"Dude," Gwen replies with an impressed smile.

Grace narrows her eyes, takes in Gwen's tan lines, her long, sunbleached locks. "Oh, that's right.  Santa Barbara, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, for like, a bajillion years. Don’t get me wrong; sun, sand, surf, what's not to like, right? But I'm ready for a change."

"Certainly," Grace answers sweetly, but Gwen can see the worry crinkling at the corners of her eyes. The older ones always worry about Identifiers like Gwen. The least respected of the types, those like Gwen empathize with their wards to the extent that they often take on their appearance, feelings, and motives, for better or worse; and Gwen very much reflects the look and personality of her previous ward, a seventeen-year-old girl navigating the perils of high school and an abusive boyfriend. In the end, it hadn’t taken much to guide the girl; she had only needed a nudge or two to begin using her support system, to find the courage and resources to leave the boy. And if it leaves Gwen sounding like a teenager for a while, that’s hardly a high price to pay, even if the other guardians look askance at her.

Grace says nothing else, but when her gaze turns away to look over the park, Gwen can see a shiver of doubt flutter over her features.

“Well. Here he comes, my dear.”

Gwen turns her head in the direction of her superior's gaze, sees the man walking through the park, the stoic face, the cane and the limp.

_Damn it._

"I don't know if this is such a good idea," Gwen says.

"Well, as you well know, we don't get to choose our wards," Grace reminds her gently. "But, I think, we often do our best work with the challenging ones."

 _Speak for yourself_ , Gwen thinks.


	2. Chapter 2

She observes. She hovers at the edges of him, undetectable, but always watching.

She observes him being lonely, jobless, friendless, aimless. She observes him having violent nightmares that rip him from sleep and leave him shaking in the bathroom as he splashes cold water on his face, over his scalp, letting it run in little rivers over his ears and down his jaw as he hunches over the sink. She observes him imposing routine on his formless days. Therapy on Wednesdays, walk in the park on Fridays, call to his sister on Monday mornings when she will almost certainly be at work and he can just leave a message. It's the same every time.

"Hi, Harry. It's me. Still alive."

He sounds disappointed.

* * *

For someone with a supposed leg injury, John Watson walks a lot. He rides the tube only when the imagined pain starts bothering him, but otherwise, he limps his way around London like he’s looking for something. Gwen walks beside him, her body mimicking his almost unconsciously, his posture, his gait, the way his eyes always look forward at nothing in particular.

She feels her mind go dull with the monotony of it, the endless tones of sandy beige and stormy grey that surround him. Only the nightmares have brightness, a horrible sharpness to them that cuts through the fog. But in the morning, it’s back to beige, and Gwen feels her own colors fading, her golden skin gone ashen, her ultramarine feathers now shot through with streaks of slate and periwinkle.

They go to the therapist’s office, and though Ella Thompson is kind, concerned, John puts on his plastic Normal Person smile and gives her absolutely nothing to work with.

“Nothing ever happens to me,” he says.

_It’s true,_ thinks Gwen. They leave the office and every day blends into the next, an uninterrupted wash of grey. She follows, a shadow of a shadow.

* * *

“Hi, Harry. It’s me. Still alive.”

It's the same every time, except it isn't. Today is Friday.

Gwen observes him staring at his gun. Not doing anything with it. Just a matter of a few seconds’ pause while fishing the laptop out from its drawer.

Color floods back, reds and yellows fill her vision. It takes all her will to stop herself. It’s only been two weeks. It’s too soon to interfere. She should watch and wait until her scheduled check-in with Grace to ask for guidance. That’s what the archangels are for, after all. That’s standard procedure.

And yet, what kind of guardian would she be if she does nothing? If she waits? What kind of guardian couldn't see that despite the therapist, despite the self-discipline, John Watson is a drowning man?

She makes herself small, tucks herself in the pocket of his checked shirt, below his scar, against his heart, and when the portly man with the kind face talks to John in the park, she nudges him for the first time.

"You're the second person who's said that to me today," Mike Stamford says to her ward.

_Nudge._

John asks. "Who was the first?"


	3. Chapter 3

For the first time since she’s been assigned to John, Gwen feels a glimmer of hope.

The tall, intense man asks, “Afghanistan or Iraq?” and she finally feels John’s attention rivet to something, to someone. Mixed in with irritation, with wariness, there’s nonetheless a fascination blooming in John--because there is nothing beige about Sherlock Holmes.

He is a cyclone of color, swirling and shifting, and Gwen thinks he’s amazing. Mad, mysterious, brilliant, and amazing. John thinks so, too. The fog lifts, and John is awake, flabbergasted, and alive. Sherlock Holmes is the antidote to the poisonous boredom, the purposelessness that John had been suffering from. Sherlock Holmes is perfect.

His guardian, on the other hand, is a total arse.

The two angels stand frowning at each other in the lab, now emptied of humans. He has made himself tall, thin, and well-dressed, his smooth chestnut hair slicked back, mustache trimmed. He reminds Gwen of nothing so much as a villain from a 1940s film noir.

"Don't tell me they assigned me to work with a bloody _sponge_ ," he oozes at her, taking in her jeans, her knitted jumper, her hair that is now streaked with the same navy hue as her ward's eyes.

"Piss off."

He narrows his eyes at her. Reconsiders. "Forgive me. I've had bad experiences with Identifiers and their catastrophic missteps," he apologizes in his crisp, perfect English.

It is, of course, not an apology at all. "There are strengths and weaknesses to every type. Identifiers. Guides." She looks at him pointedly. "Patrons."

He smiles thinly. "Indeed."

She puts out her hand. "Gwen."

He shakes it and lets go almost immediately. "Gareth."

"These two are good for each other," she states, tilting her head towards the lab door.

"Agreed," says Gareth reluctantly, sighing and not meeting her eyes.

"So." It takes him an eon to look at her, but she waits until he does to continue. "Let's work together."

When he presses his lips together and rolls his eyes just a bit, she adds, "Or, barring that, let's not get in each other's way."

He nods.

Gwen dissipates away from him as fast as she can, back to John's side where she belongs.

* * *

John doesn’t know what to do with himself. The text Sherlock had sent from his phone intrigues him, Sherlock intrigues him, but still he’s wary. It’s been so long since he’s felt these emotions that they’re rusty from disuse, his anticipation shielded by a patina of caution. Gwen watches as John rearranges the items on his desk about five different ways before he finally pulls out the laptop and enters Sherlock’s name into a search engine.

Some answers, more questions, and John doesn’t even try to sleep. He goes through his routine, gets into bed, but his dark blue eyes are wide open, his brain whirring away.

She settles weightlessly next to him, absolutely failing to be the objective observer she should be at this point. She is involved. Attached. And determined. She wants so badly for him to find joy.

_Easy,_ she thinks at him. Her hand trails over his cheek, slides down to rest over his heart. _This could be good for us. Don’t overthink it._

John Watson closes his eyes and sleeps.


	4. Chapter 4

Morning routine, making coffee, munching on an apple, staring at the laptop. Except this time, there are words, words about something--someone--happening to him.

_It's mad. I think he might be mad. He was certainly arrogant and really quite rude and he looks about 12 and he's clearly a bit public school and, yes, I definitely think he might be mad but he was also strangely likeable. He was charming. It really was all just a bit strange._

_And perfect,_ Gwen thinks, perhaps a bit loudly, because John Watson smiles as though he agrees with her.

He goes about the rest of his day, filling up the time with walking and errands, and she feels a careful joy springing up in him, anticipation rising as the time of his meeting with Sherlock nears.

They meet, and it’s as unsettling and enthralling as the day before. Sherlock twirls, jumps, raises his hands in delight over the discovery of a fourth body, and a thrill spins through John as well. And then Sherlock is dashing out, leaving him behind, and John’s so utterly disappointed that he barks at Mrs. Hudson, grimaces, rubs at his leg.

But then Sherlock comes back, calm and assessing, and John stands at attention, calm and commanding, but it’s an act, an act for both of them, Gwen can see it, Mrs. Hudson has seen it already. John nearly sighs out loud in relief when Sherlock invites him along, his deepest wish granted.

Because John Watson is not the sitting down type. Not at all.

Gwen can't stop smiling, through the cab ride as the misfits smile and glance at each other, through Sherlock showing off for John and John’s chorus of extraordinary fantastic brilliant, even though, yes, there is woman lying on the floor dead.

And then Sherlock leaves him.

People bump into him on the stairs and he suddenly feels like an idiot, thinking he’d found a place for himself when really he is clearly just in the way. The limp worsens, and John Watson goes grey around the edges as he navigates the stairs, pulls off the blue jumpsuit, walks away from the crime scene.

Gwen follows, tucks herself up on his shoulder. He walks, a bit aimless; she’s about to whisper to him, but then the phones start ringing around him.

He looks over at the red phone booth, eyes squinting with suspicion. She doesn’t even have to nudge him to answer it.

* * *

John’s heartbeat is steady as he gets into the car, but Gwen’s quickens and her feathers lift as soon as she senses it, recognition flowing over her like a wave.

The woman in the car is a guardian. A permanent one.

‘Anthea,’ as she’s calling herself, perceives Gwen’s presence immediately, meets her eyes and then glances significantly at her phone, her slim fingers working the keys. Gwen takes the hint and hovers where she can see the screen--Gwen can speak without John hearing, but Anthea is in full human form and, thus, cannot.

_Well, hello there,_ Anthea types out.

Gwen gives a nod of acknowledgement. “Who’s your ward?”

_Oh, that’ll be clear soon enough. As long as yours means no harm to Sherlock Holmes, this’ll be a bit of brotherly posturing and nothing more._

Gwen tries to imagine what a second Holmes might be like and shudders, but reassures Anthea that there’s to worry about. John is damn near smitten with Sherlock already.

Anthea smiles at the screen and John gives up on getting any information out of her and goes silent, anticipation tingling through him. He’s almost happy, and Gwen takes advantage of the free time to ask something she’s always wanted to know.

“May I be forward?”

_Please._

“How does one...become a permanent guardian?”

_It’s easier than you might think. But you have to be certain. There’s no turning back._

“How did you know? That you were sure?” A permanent position--it was a vow, a sacred promise to protect that one person for the remainder of their life on earth.

_I suppose it’s different for each of us. Mine wouldn’t have it any other way. Trust issues._

Gwen snorts, and then is mortified, for Anthea is one of the most elegant creatures she’s laid eyes on, but honestly, trust issues. She glances at John.

“Yeah. Seems to be going around.”

_You met Gareth yet?_

Gwen suppresses her urge to scowl. “Yes.”

Anthea smiles down at the phone, at Gwen, clearly having deduced Gwen’s lack of enthusiasm, but then the car is slowing and there’s no more time to discuss it.

Gwen stands next to John throughout the "meeting", but John doesn't need her--not in the least. He is calm, rebellious, perfect, even if Sherlock’s brother does get under his skin a bit. John doesn't like anyone analyzing him, presuming to know him.

Well.

Anyone but Sherlock.

The text from Sherlock appears, and Gwen feels it; the disappointment, the doubt, shimmers away, and John Watson finds his true north. 


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock continues inviting John along for the adventure, and John finds himself telling Sherlock everything, about the meeting with Sherlock's 'archenemy', about what Sergeant Donovan said to him.

Sherlock simply spears him with a piercing gaze, a hint of a smile, and says, "And I said 'dangerous,' and here you are," and strides out of the room.

_ Boy _ , thinks Gwen,  _ has he got your number. _

John knows it, too, swearing under his breath as he gets up to follow after him.

At the restaurant with the kind, romantic, and only slightly criminal owner, two things become clear to Gwen. John is entirely comfortable with all forms of sexuality except possibly his own, and Sherlock is carefully not answering the question that John is trying to ask him. John accepts the non-answer, stops asking, says it’s all fine, and he means it. The way he can make another person comfortable, settle their unease with a kind word, a smile, is another item on the growing list of things she loves about John Watson, which is concerning, since that’s only a few steps from being  _ in  _ love with John Watson. Such attachment is frowned upon, of course, and she’s sure it will take Gareth exactly one second to perceive it the next time she sees him.

But before she can fret more over it, adventure ensues, and she has her hands and wings full making sure neither one of them break their necks as they run into moving cars ( _ honestly! _ ), and race across rooftops, and tear up and down staircases, and where the hell is Gareth?

* * *

John Watson is giggling. In one night, Sherlock Holmes has cured John Watson’s limp and made him giggle. She sees the way they look at each other, is reminded of two children who meet their first day of kindergarten and become best friends for life on the spot, and she falls a little in love with both of them, with the idea of them together. But then, before anyone can just sit down and enjoy any of this, the silver-haired detective inspector is stirring the pot, and where the hell is Gareth?

So much is happening, and she makes herself small, perching unseen upon the bookshelf by the window, observing and observing.

Observing how much regard John has for Sherlock already, how he jumps to defend him.

How still and calm John is, his voice even as Sherlock spins and darts and thinks and thinks and thinks.

How Greg Lestrade is watching them both very closely.

How there is someone standing behind Mrs. Hudson, and Gwen has a bad feeling about this.

And suddenly, finally, Gareth appears beside her.

"The fuck you been?" she blurts.

Gareth glares at her with utter disdain. "I don't just follow him around like a puppy. I only come when I'm truly needed," he replies.

John's spidey-sense seems to have activated as well, because now Sherlock is leaving, and John is not just asking 'where are you going?', he's asking 'are you all right?', which is an entirely different question, asked for entirely different reasons.

"Something's wrong," Gwen says.

"That's why I'm here," Gareth replies, sanctimonious. He rises and dissipates, presumably to follow Sherlock, but Gwen is not happy. Not happy at all.

Now, everyone's leaving; not just Sherlock, but everyone. John's alone in a flat that isn't even his, really. His left hand is cramping, and he's about to leave, too. Back to his awful, soul-sucking bedsit. But Gwen knows, something's wrong. Very wrong.

She’s known John Watson a month, almost to the day, has shared every breath with him, and she knows Sherlock Holmes is the best thing that has ever happened to him. He can’t leave.

She flutters over to him.

_ I know he just abandoned you twice in one day, but don’t abandon him. He doesn't know how to do this,  _ Gwen thinks to herself. _ You could teach him. _

But she doesn't say this to him. What she does is nudge him, making the imagined pain in his leg act up. He returns to get his cane, on the chair by the computer, and then, a ding. John is not an idiot--he makes all the connections without any help, and lightning fast at that.

Cane forgotten, John rushes from the room, and Gwen is right with him.

* * *

Gwen could choose to stay in her angelic form, humanoid in general appearance but decidedly unhuman, the shimmery, insubstantial body, the diamond-like eyes. Many guardians prefer it to the clunkiness of the human form.

But Gwen doesn’t find it clunky at all. Each human form she has chosen for herself has its own eccentricities, strengths, pleasures. Human variety and complexity feels infinitely freeing, and there’s something grounding and real about the all the curves and bumps, the tiny changes in the eyes that show the truth, the blood pumping through the veins when fear and adrenaline take over.

Like they do now in John.

John is safe. There is no direct threat. No one is trying to kill him.

But someone is trying to kill Sherlock, and Gwen is starting to suspect that might feel like the same thing.

John pounds down slick hallways, bursts through doors, Sherlock’s name in his throat.  She darts around him, sliding through walls, trying to find Sherlock for him. All logic tells her that Gareth should be with Sherlock, that he’s safe, that her focus should be John, but her instincts chip away at her certainty.

She sees Sherlock at the same instant John does, and before she can even think of what to do, John--beautiful, damaged John--acts.

Without seeing, yet she knows the outcome. She has witnessed a bullet enter a body before, has seen a person killed instantly, seen another get up and walk away. But John Watson is completely, utterly devoted to Sherlock Holmes and will leave nothing to chance.

No. The cabbie is dead. There is no question.


	6. Chapter 6

Lights from police cars flicker over them, through them, as three angels meet above the portico of the Roland Kerr Further Education College. Had they been visible, the otherworldy shimmer of their bodies, their full, feathered wings would have astounded all, but only the most sensitive of humans would be able to discern them, and even then only as three vague smudges of sapphire, silver, and violet.

Gwen’s wings are half-raised, the deep blue feathers lifted, and she fights to keep her form grounded. This situation is more than a bit not good, and she hasn’t known Grace or Gareth long enough to know what to expect.

In contrast, Gareth is maddeningly calm and collected, his purple form attentive and still, his amethyst eyes betraying no anxiety.

Looking at Grace is the better choice, for though Grace’s expression is severe, Gwen can see the concern in her grey eyes as well. The silvery angel bows her head a moment and then speaks.

“Clearly, the ideal resolution would have been for this man to have been turned over to the police, and his death, regardless of his actions, is a violation of our mandate.” Her words carry no less weight for being delivered in her rich voice, the soft lilt doing very little to mitigate the seriousness of the situation they are all faced with. “Though this is not a formal inquiry, I will give you each a turn to explain how the events unfolded.”

Turning her gaze to Gwen, Grace gives a short nod.

A bit startled to be going first--Gareth is the senior guardian of the two of them--Gwen blinks and clears her throat.

“John--” she begins, and frowns at herself. _Great. Could not be more of an Identifier if I tired._ She revises.

“My ward became concerned about Holmes’ whereabouts and followed him here. He arrived and began to search the buildings. I stayed with him.” Gwen pauses to glare at Gareth; had he done the same and stayed with his own ward this evening, this could have been avoided. But Gareth’s face is a smooth mask of appropriate concern.

“At one point, my ward entered a room and could see Holmes in the building across the way. Holmes was with another man who was a known murderer. Holmes had something in his hand and seemed about to put it in his mouth.” _Because he’s a complete idiot that needs constant supervision,_ Gwen thought, though without projecting it enough for either angel to hear her.

“Since this was the suspected method of the previous murders, my ward concluded Holmes’ life was in imminent danger and--”

There really was no way to sugarcoat it. “--and he shot the man. After seeing that Holmes was safe, my ward went downstairs and phoned the police.” _Okay, so he did it anonymously, and certainly wasn’t about to confess his part, but he had acted completely out of concern for Sherlock, to protect him_ \--she stops herself from saying these things out loud and looks to Grace instead, waiting.

“And you, Gareth?”

Violet feathers not ruffled in the slightest, Gareth gives a curt nod. “Thank you. First and foremost, I must reiterate that Sherlock Holmes is in no way a child and does not require constant supervision.”

 _Whoops_. Maybe Gwen _had_ projected that thought--or Gareth’s hearing was better than she had supposed.

“And while I appreciate Identifiers’ urge to stay glued to their wards’ sides, I have always been of the mind that wards must be allowed their space for their free will to be truly free.”

 _Ah._ Her initial assessment of Gareth had been off, then. He is a Guide, the hands-off type, rather than a Patron.

He has been addressing Grace, but now Gareth turns his placid face to Gwen, his eyes reflecting the intensity behind his words. “Our presence influences them even if we only observe. Though we must protect our wards, we must also respect their decisions.”

No longer able to bite her tongue, Gwen steps forward, her own eyes flashing. “What the hell are you implying?”

“Gwen.”

It’s said with a measure of kindness, so Gwen steps back, willing herself to collect a drop of patience.

“Gareth, we are aware of your philosophy. Please continue to the events of this evening.”

“Very well. I perceived my ward had genuine need of guidance this evening when the police raided his home. I stayed with him as he chose to go with the cabbie--an unwise decision on his part, to be sure, but not one that placed him in immediate danger. As that was the case, I did nothing other than observe. My ward engaged in a battle of wits with the man, a battle which he won handily, and the matter appeared settled. In the past, my ward has most often handed criminals over to the police at this point. However, the cabbie made the unfortunate choice to continue baiting my ward, and, equally unfortunately, my ward took the bait. He chose to continue engaging in dangerous behavior even when there was no one forcing him to do so. The cabbie had no weapon, was not physically capable of overpowering my ward, and posed no threat. And yet, my ward chose to play a game with him, a game the cabbie had won four times already. This was his fully informed choice.”

Though she still believes in her own actions, in John’s actions, Gareth’s argument gives her pause. If Sherlock Holmes is bent on making dangerous decisions, ‘fully informed’ horrible choices, his guardian is in the unenviable position of negotiating warring directives.

“However, since it is my sworn duty to protect his life, I intended to step in before my ward actually swallowed the pill. Before I could take that action, of course, John Watson chose to take the enormous risk of shooting a bullet--one that could have easily resulted in my ward’s death--to kill a man he had decided no longer had the right to live.”

 _Well, shit. When you put it that way_. Her wings sagged a little.

“Gwen?”

She looked to Grace, who clearly expected some sort of rebuttal, and scrambled for something to say, but her response sounded weak even to her. “In my ward’s defense, he did not know Holmes was taking the pill by choice.” Truthfully, though, Gwen doubted that information would have changed the course of events. John Watson seemed equally likely to protect Sherlock from himself as from an outside threat.

“You should have trusted me to do my duty and stayed his hand.”

It’s true, or close enough to true that Gwen shuts up. She could argue--she can always argue--but she also recognizes bait when she sees it and it’s Grace’s job to decide what happens next anyway.

“As I have said, many times,” Grace says, with a pointed glance to Gareth, “communication, communication, communication.”

Gareth has the decency to look chagrined.

“Had you two communicated more effectively, this could have been avoided. Had your _wards_ communicated more effectively with each other, this could have been avoided. Agreed?”

Both guardians assented, and she continued. “Your goal now is therefore, two-fold: keep each other informed and foster this budding relationship between your wards. Holmes’ cavalier attitude towards his own life might alter if he has a relationship with someone he respects and values; Watson’s despair could be lifted if he finds purpose and validation. I think we all see that these two could do that for each other. It’s our job to see that they survive their adventures long enough to accomplish that.”

Not entirely sure Gareth agrees, Gwen sneaks a look at him, but he does nod obediently to Grace.

“All right. Though it was not John Watson’s decision to make, the cabbie is . . . where he belongs. The danger has passed for now. I trust you both to pursue your duty, _each in your own fashion_.”

Gwen does not miss the import of this, and when she connects her gaze with Grace’s, she sees sympathy there. Grace gives them each a nod and dissipates, a streak of silver in her wake.

Gareth raises one judgmental eyebrow and dissipates on a sigh, leaving Gwen perched on the portico by herself.

She looks down over the scene, finds John instantly--standing at parade rest, nonchalant as he lingers behind the police tape, waiting for Sherlock Holmes. She floats down, makes herself small and sits on his shoulder to wait with him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to the wonderful Ariane DeVere and her invaluable [Sherlock transcripts](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/36505.html).

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are flirting. There’s really no other word for it. Both of them reckless, both of them attracted to danger, and Sherlock is nearly swooning at the thought that John killed a man for him without hesitation. He even invites him to dinner with a look that implies more, and John is eager, “starving.”

And then they notice Sherlock’s brother.

Gwen glides over to Anthea, shrinking herself to the size of a butterfly so she may light upon the top edge of Anthea’s ever-present phone.

_Spot of trouble?_ Anthea texts as the brothers snark at each other.

“Aye,” Gwen answers. “A wee bit.”

_Formal inquiry?_

“Not this time.”

Anthea’s eyes lift a millimeter, glancing at Sherlock and John. _They seem rather pleased with themselves._

“Yeah. They seem ready to . . . celebrate, even,” Gwen says, her voice full of innuendo, and though Anthea controls her facial expression, Gwen can almost hear the raised eyebrow of interest in her typed reply.

_Oh?_

“Um . . . hello, again.”

Anthea looks up, standard smile firmly in place, and Gwen turns to see John stood there, half-hitting on Anthea again.

She huffs at him, appalled. “John Watson, you are a dog.”

“Hello,” Anthea says in a long since perfected tone of generic friendliness.

“Yes. We--we met earlier on this evening,” he says, not certain she remembers him.

Gwen glares at him. “He was batting his eyelashes at Sherlock not five minutes ago,” she tells Anthea.

Anthea, bless her, pretends that she still does not remember John, her “Oh!” making her sound surprised and a little confused.

John gives up and says goodnight, and Gwen shakes her head at him as he leaves.

_Bisexual, then?_ Anthea asks.

Gwen watches John walk beside Sherlock, their bodies within inches of each other as though tethered, both of them smiling like they’re smitten. She nods. “Seems likely. And Sherlock?”

_He’s experimented a lot. Probably mostly gay. Probably mostly demisexual. But he hates labels unless he has chosen them for himself._

Gwen smiles, a hint of sadness in her eyes. “Don’t we all?”

Anthea glances over to Mycroft. “Sir, shall we go?”

“S’pose I’m off, then, too.” Gwen hops off the phone and hovers near Anthea’s shoulder. “Trouble seems to follow mine.”

_And Sherlock goes looking for it._

Gwen gives a shuddery laugh. “They could be good for each other.”  

_Or spectacularly bad for each other._

Mycroft is still talking. “--upgrade their surveillance status; Grade Three Active.”

“Sorry, sir,” Anthea says, and Gwen feels bad for having distracted her. _“Whose_ status?”

Mycroft indicates the two retreating figures. “Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson,” he says, voice full of unease, and Gwen feels a thread of concern wind itself around her.

Even with a team of angels and a powerful, protective older brother watching over him, it will be no small task to keep John Watson safe. She leaves Anthea with a wave and dissipates away, back to John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone, for reading and sticking with this experiment of mine! This is it for now; if I'm feeling super ambitious in the future I may write more--I had a vision of continuing through each episode like this--but for now, here is where we leave them. <3


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